


Barrel

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are lots of people who think he's pretty crazy already, but Rodney knows. If he ever goes insane the way some members of his family have a disturbing history of doing, he's going to do <i>damage</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barrel

For men and women who are busily trying to save the galaxy and unlock its secrets at the same time, they have a surprising amount of downtime. At least, Rodney calls it downtime. Everyone else calls it _staying sane_ while Rodney scoffs at such plebeian needs and works harder and longer than everyone else.

That's on good days. But there are bad days, like when the Hive ships are circling around the city like giant space-swimming piranha and Rodney has to stay up not just one or two days straight but four or five or six and he's so exhausted he literally can't see straight and he better because if not everyone's going to die, _he's_ going to die, and it's going to be his fault.

It's not always the same thing, of course. In fact, this galaxy shows a remarkable sense of whimsy and creativity in how it tries to kill them, but the upshot is -- as busy as he thinks he is, there are times when he's _absolutely out of his head crazy_ from too much to do in too little time and, unusually, everyone else feels exactly the same way that he does and no one's calling him a Drama Queen.

Those times are the worst. The absolute worst, when he feels like he's lost in fog that magnifies everything around him, blinding and deafening him until everything sounds the same, waves that rise and fall and pound against his skin and he can't differentiate one note from any other and he's going to go mad from it, _mad._

There are lots of people who think he's pretty crazy already, but Rodney knows. If he ever goes insane the way some members of his family have a disturbing history of doing, he's going to do _damage_. Lots of it. There’s a pattern, after all, and Rodney knows it’s frustration that would tip him over and a man who is that frustrated with frustration is dangerous.

That he manages to confine his damage now to a few stray, uninhabited solar systems is the work of a sane man who knows better than to allow people to see just how sane he is.

Anyway.

The thing about growing older isn't that he hurts more, or he can't do as much. It's that the idea of who he is and what he wants and what he needs changes as the days slip by, one exhausted, pain-filled set of hours to the next. So when the days have stretched through crisis after crisis and he's stuck in an abandoned end of the city with only Ronon to act as guard dog, it grows with freakish speed until he's almost choking on it when he's finally allowed to relax.

He stumbles into his quarters, grunting gratefully when he sees his bed is already full and pretty much face-plants in it. The prior occupant oofs, but since he's been there longer, it's his job to shift and twist and rearrange so that they're twisted up together like a pretzel - mm, salt and mustard and hot, starchy goodness - and Rodney breathes in stale sweat that's metallic from old fear and adrenaline and thinks it's the best cologne ever, so much so that he buries his face in John's neck and tries not to hold on too tightly.

"We're not cuddling," John says, like he gets it too. Because men aren't supposed to want hugs or the reassuring pulse of another living being held close and familiar against them, not without sex anyway. But Rodney doesn't want sex, not the way he wants a shower and food and a long, long nap with John holding on until it hurts, alive alive _alive_ and here with him, safe.

"John. We're cuddling."

"Do we have to call it cuddling?" he quavers, old and goofy and as tired as Rodney is.

Except. "Yeah," he says, and means it. "Yeah we do."

John pries open eyes that are nearly invisible with swollen puffiness and glares. "I hate you."

"But you're cuddling with me."

"I'm cuddling with you," John says and they're going to hurt like hell when they wake up, but that's what showers and Tylenol three are for and right now, all they - all Rodney - needs is this.


End file.
